


Preserve Your Memories

by bettysdryer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Language Kink, M/M, Memories, Original Character(s), Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettysdryer/pseuds/bettysdryer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John Watson ever having been in love with him had never made sense anyway." A Major James Sholto character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist writing another John/Sholto fic, so here we are! I'll be posting updates weekly. "Hold Tight" is part of the background for this fic, but it's not necessary to have read that to understand this.

“I love you” was always in the back of his throat, itching its way up his esophagus, pulsing on his lips. It was in his hands when he would pass John a cup of coffee, it was on his knees that knocked into his when they were in bed; “I love you” was etched onto every inch of his body, every hidden crevice and wrinkle, every fold of his skin. The words never left his tongue, never made their way through the air into John's ears, even though it was there, always, as much a part of him as his soul.

 _He has to know_ , he would tell himself. _I don't need to say it. Surely he can see it._

Years later, James Sholto would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the things he'd never said crushing him.

* * *

Six months after the accident. No, not an accident. “Slaughter” would be a more appropriate term.

Every day was much the same – he would rise at six in the morning, and undergo the painfully humiliating ritual of showering with assistance and getting dressed using only one hand ( _Remember, you shouldn't even be here_ ). The daily security breakdown with his personnel. Breakfast (alone). A walk about the grounds (alone). Other meaningless activities (alone alone). 

His estate was large, impeccably neat and well-kept, with a rotating staff of a little over a dozen people, all carefully vetted, all of whom kept to themselves as instructed. A house full of people, yet James kept a moat of isolation around himself at all times. 

It was a _very_ large estate. And at the end of the day it was very large and very empty. 

He didn't know why he was here and all those young men were dead.

* * *

During his usual morning routine, James absently grabbed the newspaper, almost not noticing the giant headline plastered across the front page:

“SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

 _John._ He'd seen the duo in other articles – with a pang, always, every time there was a photo of John's face, his name in black and white print that James would brush the fingers of his good hand against. He'd (pathetically) read John's blog far too many times, but had never left any comments or sent him an e-mail. What would the point have been?

But this...

The paper fell back on the table with a quiet thump as James screeched his chair back and began walking to his office.

“Do you need anything, Major?” his secretary asked as he passed her.

“No thank you, Sheila.” He closed the door and sat at his desk. 

His computer sat in front of him, almost seeming to taunt him with how difficult he was finding this.

 _What can I even say? There's nothing I can do, nothing at all._ He thought of John after Captain Stradlater had died in the bomb blast at Helmand, and how they'd both sat utterly silent in the barracks for hours. Not moving. Not saying a word. He wondered if John was doing the same thing in 221B Baker Street right now.

In the end, all he could type (clumsily, one finger at a time) was:

> _John,_
> 
> _I am very, very sorry for your loss._
> 
> _-Major James Sholto_

_He's probably received hundreds of e-mails like this,_ he thought. _What's the point in me sending one too?_ But he clicked send anyway. 

He owed John so much more than this, but it was all he could give.

* * *

“You know, I've never been to Paris,” John said, as he and James observed a riotous conversation between the privates about the last time they had gone on leave in France.

“Really? Never?” James gave him a curious look. “It's not _that_ far from home.”

“Dunno. Never got the chance.” His foot traced circles in the dirt. “Never went abroad much to begin with.”

“Well. That's certainly a shame.”

It was a few months later when James pulled John aside and told him, “Apply for leave to Munich the second weekend of June.”

“What? Why?”

James held back a smile. “Because some of the other captains are going. And a few of the majors. For a conference.”

“So wh – oh.” John never held back his smiles, which James liked. “You got something planned?”

“I might.”

“What's the conference for?”

“It doesn't matter. We won't be going.”

“Why not?”

“Because we won't be in Munich.”

“Then... where will we be?”

James paused, and let himself smile. “Paris.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded, and let his smile grow a little wider, which in turn made John's face light up. 

“But – won't everyone notice that we're not there and that we left together?”

“Not to worry. I've taken care of it.” As James explained his plan, John's eyes grew bigger and bigger with amusement and disbelief.

“You _have_ to be descended from Rube Goldberg,” John said when he was finished. “On the crazy side.”

“Well, do you want to go or not?”

John's gaze darted about quickly and, seeing no one around, planted a kiss on James' lips and whispered, “Of course, you bloody loon.”

* * *

He was surprised to get an e-mail back only an hour later.

> _James -_
> 
> _Thank you for your condolences. I heard about what happened with you a few months ago and I tried to get in touch but I was never able to get your information. They really cracked down on that sort of thing._
> 
> _It would mean a lot to me if you came to the funeral. You two never met but I think you would have got on._
> 
> _Don't be a stranger._
> 
> _-John_

* * * 

James paced the specially designated compartment in the specially designated train for approximately 10.5 minutes before John slid the door open and scooted inside, plopping himself on the seat closest the window. He was dressed in his civilian clothes, a plaid button-up and green trousers with a brown belt. He un-buttoned the top of his shirt and smirked, and James was, yet again, embarrassed by how much that smirk could disarm him.

“Your mental plan worked,” John said. “You can relax.”

“Oh. Good.” He awkwardly sat down, fingers laced tightly around each other. He didn't know why he was so nervous – it wasn't the fear of getting caught; he was reasonably sure he had taken correct precautions – but the idea of being in Paris with John was making him unbearably fidgety. They had never been alone together outside of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and James didn't know how to act around him without the presence of the military and other soldiers.

Being in France wasn't the only foreign thing about the situation.

John seemed to sense his distress, and laid his foot across his, and even just this small touch was enough to uncoil him. James often wondered if John was fully aware of the effect he had.

“We've got a long ride,” he finally said.

“What time'll we get there?”

James checked his watch. “Around noon. We can check in as soon as we arrive.”

“Alright.” John yawned and stretched. “I'm gonna have a kip.” 

James' lip twitched as John crossed his arms and closed his eyes, his foot still resting atop his.

* * *

“Hotel Britannique? Really?” John shifted his overnight bag as the two of them stood in front of the building.

James shrugged. “Why not?”

John pulled his lips down and shrugged back. He looked pleased.

“Now, since I was the one who made the reservation, I'll go in first,” James said. “Wait about twenty minutes at the cafe down the street, then I'll come out and give you the extra key, and you'll go and leave your things, then – ”

“James, _James_. What the hell are you going on about? Why are we going in separately? You do realize no one here knows us, right? We don't have to sneak around.” 

James stared at him.

“We can just go up to the hotel room together. It doesn't matter.” He blinked. “I thought... I thought that was the whole point of coming here? So we wouldn't have to worry about that stuff.”

 _The point of coming here was because you've never been to Paris._ “Yes – of course.”

“Right.” John looked up at him with fond bemusement before clearing his throat and heading inside.

Not having to come up with an elaborate plan was already throwing James off. The fact that they could just waltz in at the same time and walk into the same room with the double bed and no one would mind or care was... disconcerting.

And exciting, truth be told. His heartbeat accelerated as they entered the hotel. 

“Welcome to the Hotel Britannique,” said the concierge as they approached the reception desk. “Are you checking in?”

“ _Oui._ ” James placed his bag on the floor after digging out his card. “ _Je me rappelle vous avoir eu au téléphone il y a quelques semaines au sujet du paiement de ma chambre. Au nom de James Sholto._ ” 

“Ah, your French is very good, sir!” The concierge seemed delighted, while John stared at him like he'd never properly seen him before. “ _Aucun risque d'indiscrétion chez nous. Puis-je avoir votre carte?_ ”

James handed his card over. He looked back at John, who was still staring at him, entranced.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn't know you spoke French,” he said, a little breathless, and James bit back the smirk that threatened to overtake his face.

After a moment, John shook his head and seemed to come back to his senses. “I'm gonna go explore a bit.”

“Alright...?” But John had already wandered off to check out the rest of the hotel.

It took a little longer than James had anticipated for the concierge to follow his instructions on how to charge him for the room, but the timing worked out quite well, as John was just returning as the process was completed.

“Would you like for someone to carry your bags?” the concierge asked.

“No, we can manage, thank you.”

It wasn't until the lift doors closed that John let out a long, slow breath, leaning against the wall.

“Really? That's what gets you going? Me speaking French?” He couldn't help but be amused.

“It's the – your tone, or something. I dunno. Your voice gets all deep.”

James made a _hmm_ noise. _Useful._

As soon as they entered the room and set the bags down – it was a nice room, not especially spacious, but the deep red hues of the curtains, bedspread, and the canopy that draped the wall behind it were certainly erotic – John had his fingers hooked through the belt hoops on James' trousers and was pulling him unceremoniously onto the bed. 

“Not wasting time, are you?” James chuckled as John kissed him to shut him up, wrapping his legs around James' hips. His cock was already hard, and James groaned into John's mouth, rocking against his erection.

“ _Tu vas me sucer la queue bien comme il faut, en prenant ton temps_.” James whispered in his ear, and John shuddered. “ _Puis tu me baiseras profond jusqu'à faire de moi une tâche humide sur le matelas._ ”

“I'm assuming you said something dirty?” John was so hard that James felt morally obligated to begin removing his trousers. 

“Yes. Positively filthy.”

“Good.” John, eyes alight with lust, grabbed his neck and kissed him with such desperation that James became momentarily distracted from un-buckling his belt. “Don't you fucking stop.”

James obliged, continuing to murmur all the things he wanted John to do to him in French – not that John understood any of it, but he seemed to get the general message anyway, as before long John was on his knees, his mouth wrapped around James' cock, doing that thing with his tongue that always made his bones turn to jelly.

John traced his hands down his thighs, he moaned, the vibration made James shake with want and he ran his fingers through John's hair, urging him to go faster, which he did, his cock sliding against the inside of his cheek. 

They didn't have to be quiet. He didn't have to keep an eye out for possible intruders. He didn't have to time things exactly right. It was just them. It was exhilarating. 

It was terrifying.

 

* * *

 _How could I go to the funeral?_ James was pretending to contemplate his dinner while his maid wiped the kitchen counter. _It would be disrespectful for me to go. I didn't even know the man._

 _How could it be disrespectful if John asked you to come?_ part of his brain asked.

He didn't have an answer for this. Instead he picked at his pre-cut steak. He didn't have much of an appetite tonight. Sighing, he placed his fork carefully on the table and pushed his plate away.

“I'm done with this,” he told the maid, who wordlessly grabbed his meal and tossed the leftovers into a sealed plastic container. 

_Admit it_ , his brain said, _you won't go because you're a coward._

 _I never denied being a coward_ , James thought, and avoided his reflection in the mirror as he passed down the hall to his bedroom.

* * *

John had a unique talent for fucking him until he was raw and filled and completely spent. It wasn't as though he was the first man James had ever been with – he wasn't even the second or the third – but there was something about John Watson and his cock that sent him to another plane of existence, something about the way he dug his fingers into his hips, something about how hard he rode him, roughly, slowly, then frantically; it made his knees buckle and it made him tremble uncontrollably and it made him come so fucking hard, and it would have embarrassed him were it not for the fact that he appeared to have the same effect on John.

John was lying on top of him at the moment, breaths ragged in his ear, his sweat clinging to James' back. His cock was still inside him, though he had just come uncharacteristically loudly (although maybe James just found it uncharacteristic because of their usual circumstances). 

They laid like that for some time, John's fingers intertwined with his, the low hum of the air conditioner the only sound in the room. The chill was welcome after their rigorous activities, and the warmth of John's skin was welcome also. It was a relaxing mixture.

John did roll off of him, eventually, and went in search of his pants, which had disappeared at some point. James took the opportunity to get a nice, unobstructed view of Captain John Watson completely nude, his cock swinging between his legs.

“How did they get behind the telly?” John wondered out loud, laughing as he fished them out from their improbable landing site. 

“I think mine wound up underneath the bed,” James said.

They both went on a brief treasure hunt for all of their clothes, and as John was buttoning up his shirt, the sunlight from the window hit him in a certain way, and it was like time had stopped and James couldn't breathe. 

“What?” John asked, noticing James staring at him.

“Nothing.” He went back to pulling on his socks, but he didn't miss the quick smile that flashed across John's face.

“So, what are we doing now?” John asked. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. “Eiffel Tower? The Louvre?” He pronounced it the English way. 

“It's _le Louvre_ , actually.”

“Oh, _sorry_ , Major Fancypants.”

“You weren't complaining about my French earlier.”

John made a face at him. “Anyway – where are we off to?”

“Something a little off the beaten path.” James zipped up his fly. “ _La butte aux cailles_.”

“What's that?”

“A neighborhood. My grandmother lived there. I used to visit her during the summers when I was a boy.” He didn't know why he was telling him this; he wasn't usually prone to talking about himself. “It's like a village inside a city.”

He looked up to find John beaming at him. _I want to always make him smile like that_ , was a stray thought that passed his mind before he dismissed it. It was pointless to get too sentimental. He began making the bed, while John tittered at him from the corner of the room.

* * *

Two days, and the email remained unanswered. James knew he didn't have much time left – the funeral was at the end of the week – but every time he tried to type something, anything, explaining why he couldn't come, any excuse he managed to come up with seemed like an obvious lie. It would be better for him to just not respond, he knew, rather than invent a false story. 

But he still felt he owed John an explanation. _But what? 'I can't attend the funeral, I've got a meeting'? A meeting with who? 'I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come; I don't think I will be able to handle seeing you again, especially in a situation like this'?_

Honesty wasn't always the best policy. James shut down his desktop, and day slowly turned into twilight.

Say what you will about living alone; at least it was nice and quiet.

* * *

John had insisted that they walk down the River Seine before taking a cab, and while James had been a tad confused about it at first – sure, it was a lovely day out, but they would be walking once they got there, so what was the difference – he suddenly understood when John's right hand kept brushing against his left, and he felt his stomach drop all the way to his feet. _He wants to hold hands? In public? Really?_ It was one thing for them to walk into a hotel room together with basically no one around, but this was...

...too late, John's fingers had found his, and there they were, holding hands, in front of everyone, a balmy breeze blew past and the sky was brilliantly blue, James' heart was hammering in his chest and he was sure John could feel his rapid pulse, he was holding hands in broad daylight with John Watson in Paris, France; what on earth was going on? This was much, much more than he had anticipated, why did John even want to...?

“It's alright,” John was whispering in his ear, on his tip-toes, “no one knows us, remember?”

“Yes, I know.” His voice didn't come out as wavering as he'd feared it would, thankfully. He tried to relax. He could do this, just this once. If John wanted to hold his hand while they walked next to the Seine and the air was warm and his heart felt like it was swelling, then fine. He would do it. 

* * *

Every morning, he woke up tasting the sound of gunfire. 

The sulfur in the air. The smoke. 

The broken bodies and dead hearts.

It was a routine at this point, which leant it a certain comfort. Routine, he could understand. Routine was clockwork, it was careful machinations, a never changing constant, like the sunrise over the desert and a hot cup of coffee at exactly 7:15 am every morning. 

What was difficult to understand was why he was still here drinking his coffee and reading his newspaper and waking up from his usual nightmares when over a dozen men were lying in their graves when they were never supposed to be there.

It was war. Casualties were inevitable. He knew this. Of course he knew this.

He hadn't known those men, though. They were fresh recruits, almost straight from boot camp. He hadn't even known most of their names until after, when they were read aloud to him in his hospital bed. He hadn't known anything about them. He hadn't known where they had gone to school, whether any of them were married, how they took their eggs, what their favorite colors were. 

The only survivor. Why? 

At times he would almost begin to pray, felt the urge to go to church, to ask God why his supposed “plan” included leaving a fractured old man alive and killing over a dozen men that had been under his command, that had been his responsibility. And not only to keep him alive, but to leave him disfigured and cast out of what he had spent his entire life devoted to. What had the point been, exactly? Why couldn't he have just died with them, if the event itself was inevitable?

But Major James Sholto had not been to church in years, though the Catholic guilt still plagued him, the cross hanging above his bed. 

In any case, he knew God wouldn't answer. Never had. 

No one had any answers. 

* * *

“How do you pronounce it again? La boot of cayes?” 

“Er, close. _La butte aux cailles_.”

“ _La butte_ – oh, sod this.” John gave the “ _Rue de la butte aux cailles_ ” sign the finger and walked on, while James laughed. 

They had continued holding hands during the entire cab ride, and they still were now, and after James' initial hyper-awareness of John's fingers around his, it seemed... normal. Natural. 

He tried to warn himself off of getting too comfortable with this, but the voice of reason in his head was getting drowned out by John. 

“Bit of a young crowd, isn't it?” John gestured over to the group of twenty-somethings gathered outside one of the restaurants. “You sure it was your grandmother that lived here?”

“Reasonably sure, yes. Unless she was some sort of shape-shifter.”

“A shape-shifting twenty-six year old pretending to be your gran.”

“Though you would think a twenty-six year old shape shifter might find other uses for their shape-shifting abilities besides pretending to be someone's grandmother.”

“Might've been on the run from the law.”

He guffawed. “The idea of my grandmother being a fugitive is even more unlikely than her being a shape shifter in disguise.” 

“Oh yeah?” John's grip tightened. “What was she like?”

“Oh, I don't know...” James glanced around. “Just the usual. Old-fashioned, as you can imagine. Very religious. Went to confession constantly. Sort of made me wonder what she was doing that she had to confess all the time.”

“See, there's another clue for the shape-shifting fugitive theory. Did you like visiting her?”

James chewed on the inside of his cheek, part of him reluctant to talk at such length, but something was making him want to tell John everything about himself. “It was alright. She was stern, but she could be funny when she wanted to be.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” John smiled slyly up at him. James smiled back, despite himself. He looked away, flustered, and the sight of the public drinking fountain caught his eye.

“Come.” He pulled John towards the giant metal faucets, where a few children were lapping the water straight into their mouths before they ran off, shrieking with laughter. 

James let go of John's hand and cupped his own hands together under one of the faucets, the water pooling in his palms. He quickly drank it, and the taste brought a flood of memories with it – hours spent playing soldier with the neighborhood boys, getting so tired he could barely stand, splashing the cold water on his hot cheeks, his grandmother yelling at him in French from down the street to come back for dinner...

“What're you thinking about?” 

James ran his hands through his hair, the cool droplets of water a relief in this warm weather. “Remembering. It's strange, what can trigger memories. Sights, sounds, tastes. Things you haven't thought about for years.”

“Good memories, I hope?”

“Mostly.” James pointed at one of the faucets. “Try it. It's good.”

He did, drinking the water thirstily, and James looked down upon him with so much affection that it felt like the sun was about to burst out of his finger tips.

* * *

He was slightly paranoid about running into old childhood acquaintances or people who had known him in his youth, though he looked very different from when he was a boy and it was unlikely he would be recognized. And in any case, he was trying not to think about things like that for the time being. 

John's right hand had found his left again at some point as they continued to stroll. It was fairly quiet at this time in the afternoon, and it was astonishingly easy to forget that the rest of the world even existed. The street art adorning the buildings, the community center with the pool he had swam in countless times, the shoes strung on a wire running between two houses, the lush trees and the stoney road, the _Sainte-Anne_ church where he had spent solemn Sundays in prayer... John was seeing all of it, soaking it all in, asking him questions and relishing in the answers, and the prospect that had frightened him so many times before – the idea of someone knowing him, really knowing him – didn't seem quite so frightening. 

They turned down into a quiet alley, between two rows of houses. Bright green leaves poked through the wrought iron fences, and moss grew between the stones that lined the path. John was talking about how an old school friend of his named Steven had once mooned the pastor at their church during a sermon.

“He just did it with no warning, too!” John said as he shook with laughter. “God, he got in so much trouble for that. I didn't even see him outside of school for half a year.”

James chuckled. “You know, I fancied someone named Steve once. Or, I thought his name was Steve.”

“What do you mean you 'thought' his name was Steve? Didn't take you as the kind for nameless one night stands, Major.” John bumped his hip playfully into his.

“No, it wasn't – it was at school. I'd seen him around, and he was very handsome. Blonde hair, blue eyes.”

“You've got a type.”

“Very funny. Anyway, there was an awards ceremony one day, and one of the names they announced was 'Steve McIntosh', and that's when he ran up to the stage. So I spent the whole year thinking his name was Steve McIntosh. Never said a word to him, of course. Then at the end of term, we got our class photos, and it turned out his name was Christopher Goodwin.”

John burst out laughing. “You're joking!”

“I'm not. It's a good thing I was too shy to talk to him. Would've made a complete idiot out of myself...” 

John came to a sudden stop, his hand still gripping onto his, yanking him to a stop as well. James looked back at him, puzzled. 

He had the strangest look on his face – like there was so much warmth inside of him that it was about to explode out of him at any moment, like James was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen (though that was perfectly ridiculous). Then it morphed into something else, something quieter, but no less loving, and James was being pulled close to him, too close, their bodies practically touching, and he could feel the heat emanating from John's body. 

“Watson, what are you – ”

“Ssh.” He put his finger against his lips. Then slowly, slowly, he grasped the back of James' neck, the pads of his fingers gently stroking his skin, and James knew what he wanted to do and he couldn't move closer but he couldn't move away, either, his eyes locked onto John's. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. “It's alright. It's alright.”

James closed his eyes, and John's lips brushed against his. 

It felt more electric than any of the other times they had kissed. It grew deeper, James using his free hand to cup his cheek. Kissing, right outside of people's homes. John pressed against him. In public but in private. 

It wasn't a long kiss, and John broke away slowly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.

They continued walking as though nothing had occurred.

* * *

One of the many odd things about being here with John was the city itself. It had been a while since James had been anywhere that wasn't surrounded by endless stretches of dirt and sky, and the tall buildings, the concrete streets, the motorcycles chugging past on cobblestone roads and even something as simple as a couple eating ice cream outside a cafe, felt more like a novelty than ordinary. He could not shake the niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he was not meant to be here. That this kind of life and this environment was meant for someone with a completely different constitution than him. That he needed, absolutely needed, to get back to where he belonged and was most useful. 

But James batted those thoughts away as best as he could, at least for the present. They would only be in Paris until tomorrow morning, after all, and then it was back to his real home. 

After spending the rest of the day traipsing along the streets of Paris, then getting dinner and drinks at one of the bars near the hotel, James felt surprisingly good. 

“That was...nice,” he commented as they headed back to the hotel. 

“Yeah?” John rubbed his back. “I thought so too. Thanks for this.”

“Of course.” James gazed after him as he walked through the double doors into the lobby. John turned and winked at him. 

* * *

They fucked again that night, but it was different. Usually it was frantic, heavy with desire; a giant, passionate burst of energy and a quiet fizzle.

Tonight, John ran his hands languidly over his skin as they kissed, facing each other in bed, his fingers leaving trails of warmness in their wake. That's how they remained, for a time, just kissing. And when it became something else, it was indeed passionate, but it was rather more like a slowly burning candle. James felt himself build up and build up, a careful climb that did not plummet immediately once he reached the top, but had a gradual and wonderful descent. 

They were both so thoroughly satisfied afterwards that James thought he heard John mumble, “I love you so much” as he fell asleep.

 _I love you, too._ He could feel it, scuttling across his chest as he watched him sleep.

John Watson was incredibly dangerous. 

* * *

James woke up the next morning tangled in white sheets, his hand atop an empty space where John was supposed to be.

“What...” He shot up, instantly awake, looking around the room. Where had he gone? Had he left on his own? His clothes were gone, but his bag was still here...

Just then, the door opened, revealing John holding two cups of coffee, and James felt like a fool for panicking. 

“You actually overslept,” John said, smirking as he pushed the door closed with his foot. “We've got less than an hour before our train leaves.”

“What time is it?” 

He checked his watch. “8:23. Here.” He handed him one of the cups and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. “When was the last time you didn't wake up at an exactly scheduled time?”

“I don't remember.” Uneasy, James sipped his coffee and changed the subject. “You didn't happen to get any breakfast, did you?”

John pointed at the nightstand, where a croissant was sitting on a china plate. “Thought I'd go for a stereotype.”

“As far as stereotypes go, this is fairly inoffensive.” He reached over and took a grateful bite. His stomach was rumbling. 

“Guess you must've slept pretty nicely.” A flirty look. 

James swallowed and gave a small smile. “I suppose so.” He wolfed down the rest of his croissant and set the coffee down on the nightstand as he swung his legs off the side of the bed. “We should hurry. I need to shower.”

“Yes, sir.” John turned on the telly as James went into the bathroom. 

James had always been quick to shower and get dressed, so it wasn't long before they were checking out and leaving, James hailing a cab to take them to the _Gare de l'Est_. 

They arrived on schedule, thankfully, and when they sat down in their compartment, John said, “Wish we could've taken a plane instead. I'm not sure I'm up for another six hour train ride.”

“It's unfortunate, but harder to trace us this way.” James placed the newspaper he had grabbed for John on the seat next to him. “You should've brought a book.”

“Speaking of, is that all you read? Historical non-fiction about World War 2?” John grabbed the giant tome out of James' bag, grinning. 

“They're not _all_ about World War 2. I have some about World War 1. And the Falklands.” 

John laughed and tossed the book back into his bag. “You need to broaden your horizons a bit.” 

James rolled his eyes. “Read your newspaper, since you didn't bring anything with you. Too bad you couldn't have bought yourself a souvenir.”

“Well, actually...” 

_Oh no._ “What?” 

“I didn't tell you at the time, but...” John licked his lower lip in excitement, then reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. “I got you something.”

“What is it?”

“I took some photos.” He eagerly unsealed the packaging and grabbed a stackful of glossy photographs. “I got a disposable camera in the lobby when we checked in. Look, see...” He rifled through them, showing James each photo – the view from their room, James walking in front of him by the River Seine, James drinking from the water fountain, _La butte aux cailles_ at night, a photo of John smiling in the foreground while James obliviously looked off to the side...

“Mementos, you know,” he said, straightening them and sliding them back in. “Thought it'd be a nice surprise. Like them?”

“Watson, are you mad? We can't keep those.”

John looked up. “Hmm?”

“We... I can't...” He took a deep breath. “You _know_ there can't be any evidence we were here together.”

“Well, it's not like you've got to hang them up in your office or something; I just thought – ”

James shook his head violently. “You have to get rid of these. What if someone found them? How would we explain it? It's too risky. You really should've known better. Why would you think this was a good idea in the first place? I won't jeopardize my entire career just for – ”

He could immediately tell he'd said the wrong thing. John looked as though he had just been slapped across the face. His gaze fell downward.

“Oh. Yeah – you're right. It was... it was stupid. Yeah.” He cleared his throat and looked everywhere but at him. His fingers clung to the envelope like he didn't know what to do with them. “Okay.”

 _Shit._ “Watson – ”

“No, I know. It's fine.” He seemed so lost. He stood up. “I'll just...”

John stood there for several long moments before exiting the compartment. James could hear him throw the photos away in the bin across the hall.

He came back, all his looseness and joviality replaced with a stiff spine and a soldier's posture. The lips that had been smiling so widely only a minute ago were pursed. 

“You get off the train first, yeah?” John asked him.

“I...” His mouth felt dry. John wouldn't look at him. “Yes.”

“Okay.” John picked up his newspaper and started to read, while James couldn't find any words and his eyes slid toward the city that was disappearing behind them. 

* * * 

All he'd ever done was hurt John. Over and over and over. He couldn't do it again.

* * *

The funeral was scheduled for 10 a.m. James was sitting in his black car inside the graveyard at 9:46. 

A few people had trickled past – no one James recognized – until a car pulled up behind him and he saw John emerge from the passenger's side through the side view mirror.

It hit him all at once, like a clap of thunder.

He was dressed in a black suit, and James didn't know whether it was the cloudy day or John's grief, but everything about him was grey. His hair, his skin, his eyes. He looked so much older. His eyes were haunted and dead. He barely seemed aware of the world around him. 

Some ghost inside of James was reaching out, reaching through the clear glass with its pale fingers, before John passed out of view.

“Sir?” His driver turned to look at him. “Will you be going in now?”

“No, it's... just a few more moments.” He could hardly move. Something was keeping him affixed to his seat.

Time passed. He didn't know how long. He didn't look at his watch. He didn't look at anything. 

James eventually peered out the window to see that the service had started. There were not very many attendees. He supposed that had to do with Holmes' name being smeared in the press. James didn't know what was true and what wasn't, but what he saw was a completely, utterly, entirely broken John Watson was standing next to an open grave marked “SHERLOCK HOLMES”. 

He had never, ever seen him like this. Not once in the entire time he had known him.

 _Get out of the car_ , he told himself. _Get out of the goddamn car._

He didn't.

The service continued, and he watched from a distance. From back here, everyone was just a blur of faces and black clothes. But John somehow stood out from them all. He was grief in a suit. 

When it was over, when the coffin was buried and the people began to walk away, it started to drizzle, like some cliché out of a movie. James' chest felt tight as he watched John be the last to leave; he wouldn't look back at the grave, his every movement as though he was in a thick fog. There seemed to be an invisible barrier surrounding him that everyone was walking outside of.

Then John looked up and saw him. 

He was standing only a few feet away. James instinctively flinched at the sudden eye contact, blinking rapidly, and his heart raced ( _stupid, so stupid, not at a time like this, what is the matter with you_ ) as John came to a stop. The rain dripped off of John's skin as recognition flickered across his sad, sad eyes. 

They didn't say anything. They didn't move. 

Until, finally, all James could do was incline his head slightly. John did the same.

His driver pulled away. James felt hollow and empty. The word _coward_ followed him all the way home.

When he returned to his office later, he found the following e-mail in his inbox:

> _James -_
> 
> _Thank you for coming._
> 
> _-John_


	2. Maxwell

November 2nd.

He studied the calendar on his desk pad, each of the old days marked off with a large, red X. 

Exactly one year and eleven months since that bomb had burned the left side of his body and killed those men.

One year, eleven months, and hundreds of death threats later, here he was. Still. 

If nothing else, it was a testament to how well he was able to keep going, even when he didn't really want to. 

He studied the schedule for the day, and saw that it was, coincidentally, also the day for the new staff cycle. He'd nearly forgotten, after yesterday's debacle with the chef. It was going to take ages for the new maid to clean the pudding off of the chandelier.

James went to go prepare, grabbing an apple from the kitchen. 

* * * 

The new staff members stood in a line in the foyer, backs straight and feet planted firmly on the ground. The new chef, the new driver, the new maid, and the new nurse.

James was far enough along in his recovery that he no longer needed assistance dressing, showering, or going about his daily activities, and he'd also completed physical therapy some time ago. His scars had mostly healed by this point, though it was still necessary to apply lotion in order to prevent dryness and blisters. James was perfectly capable of functioning on his own, but he'd been advised to still have a private nurse visit a few times a week to monitor his progress and administer his medication. He didn't much see the point, but did so anyway. 

This particular nurse was named Maxwell Bertrand, and his resume had been singularly impressive. He was American, and had trained at Johns Hopkins, before inexplicably coming to England and spending a year in the burn unit at Chelsea & Westminster. He then, also inexplicably, gave that up to become a private nurse, which he had (according to his references) been doing an excellent job at for the past six months.

James came up to him in the line-up. He was of an average height, with dark skin, broad shoulders, and slim hips. James could not help but note his striking good looks, though he quickly moved on to other things in his head.

“Nurse Bertrand,” he said. “Welcome.”

“You can just call me Maxwell. And hi.” He smiled. It was a nice smile, warm and friendly. A finely groomed goatee surrounded his mouth.

As James greeted everyone else, and as the rest of the day proceeded, it was notable that none of the others addressed him so informally, which was what he preferred. There was nothing wrong with this Maxwell fellow, per se – he was nothing but respectful and courteous – but it would not do if he attempted to form some sort of personal relationship. And he seemed like the sort who might try. It had happened a few times before, his nurses attempting to become his friend. It never ended well. James had never been the type to make friends very easily. People gave up after a while. So many found him off-putting, and he could hardly blame them. 

Still, though, the man's expertise couldn't be denied, and James had always had respect for those who were extremely competent in the field of medicine ( _an image of John stitching up a wound flashed across his mind_ ). There was no sense in letting go of someone that dedicated for hypothetical and largely unfounded reasons. 

When the afternoon drew to a close and night began creeping across the landscape, James sat in his office going over some documents when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Maxwell Bertrand creaked the door open, looking apologetic. He inched his way into the room.

“Listen,” he started, “I'm really sorry about this, but I don't think I can keep working for you.”

Well, this was a surprise. James put his pen down. “Oh? Why not?”

“It's just... well, it's a _really_ long commute. Like, insanely long. Much longer than I thought it was gonna be.”

“You'll only be here a few times a week.”

“I know, but...” He worried at his lower lip. “Money's kind of tight for me right now, even with how much you're paying me, and because it takes me so long to get here and back that means there's less jobs I can take. So, I really appreciate the opportunity, and I can give you some recommendations for other nurses if you want, but – ”

While Maxwell had been speaking, James had picked his pen up again and written something on a slip of paper, which he now wordlessly slid across the desk.

After giving him a curious look, Maxwell picked up the paper and read it. His eyes went wide and he inhaled sharply. 

“I trust that'll be sufficient for your needs,” James said.

“Yeah, that's – wow. Wow. That's incredibly generous. Thank you.” He continued to stare at the paper for another few moments before tucking it into the waistband of his scrubs, showing a brief flash of his abdomen. “I'll see you Thursday!”

“Good.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

* * *

He was a very outgoing sort.

It only took a short while for Maxwell to establish a rapport with the rest of the household staff. He was cheerful smiles and boundless energy, the sort of man who'd bring you a cup of your favorite tea for no reason, who was able to strike up a conversation with anyone about anything at any given time. Normally such people irritated James immensely, but Maxwell had such a good nature that it was impossible to dislike him. 

As winter settled in, wrapping its cold and snowy arms around the backwoods of his home, the house paradoxically became warmer and more inviting. Because of Maxwell's long commute, after his work was over he would frequently stay a few hours more (“Otherwise the drive there and back is longer than the time I was actually here”, he said). He stayed out of the way, for the most part, until one day James found him sitting in the library, cozying up next to the fireplace.

“Oh,” James said, and Maxwell looked up. 

“Oh, hey – hope this is alright,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I wanted to check out your collection.”

“It's fine.” James stood there awkwardly. 

“You've got a lot of war books.” He waved the book he was currently reading – _The Monuments Men_. 

“Yes.”

“I couldn't even find any dirty romance novels or anything,” he said jokingly.

James said nothing, just continued to stand there.

Maxwell cleared his throat. “Did you, uh – come in here for something, or...?” 

“Er, yes –” He jerked his arm over towards the third shelf on the right. “I need some... cookbooks.”

“Cookbooks? Don't you have a chef?”

“Yes.” 

Silence.

“...Right.” Maxwell chortled with confusion before tucking his legs underneath him and resuming his reading. 

James immediately left the library without getting what he had come there for. 

* * *

The night terrors hadn't subsided over time. If anything, they'd gotten worse.

He'd always been a light sleeper, and any noise in the night was liable to send him jolting upright in bed, sweat pouring down his brow and his heart racing so hard that he could feel it in every part of his body, that rapid _thumpthumpthumpthump_. Sometimes he would wake up already screaming. 

It was something of a consolation that he could never remember what he had been dreaming about.

It was also nothing he couldn't manage. He never felt tired during the day and he never became violent in his sleep, like he had heard could sometimes happen. It was more of an annoyance than anything else.

He never bothered explaining to the maids why his sheets tended to be soaked in sweat most mornings. And they never asked. 

Occasionally, to calm himself upon waking, John's face would swim before him, and his soothing voice would whisper reassurances in his ear.

“You're fine,” the phantom John would say. “You're alright. You're safe.”

He wasn't safe. But it was still nice to hear.

* * *

James had always prided himself on his self-control, so when he awoke one day to find that the lamp on his bedside table had been flung across the room, his carefully constructed artifice of everything being fine began to show some cracks.

Just an accident, he told himself, picking up the broken pieces with his right hand. _I'm hardly the first person to act out their dreams in their sleep._

Still. He would have to monitor the situation closely. If it escalated... well. It wouldn't do to think about that just now.

He didn't tell Maxwell about this during his visit, though a part of him knew that he should. He also hadn't told him about the night terrors – had not, in fact, told anyone at all. He presumed his security team must know, due to the cameras, but they were honoring their contracts and not saying a word.

He could keep it under control. He had always been able to.

“Do you mind if I skip out early today?” Maxwell asked him as they were wrapping up their appointment. 

“Do you mean, do I mind if you leave at your scheduled time instead of staying late? Because no, I don't.” It came out sounding colder than he had meant it to. 

He blinked, but bounced back fairly quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

James, against his better judgment, made an attempt to be somewhat friendly. “Any particular reason why?”

“I've got a date.” Maxwell smirked, and something about that smirk reminded James of John, and he could almost smell the streets of Paris in his nostrils. 

“Ah.” He rearranged some items on his desk. “Who's the lucky lady?” 

“Man.”

“Sorry?”

“Man. Lucky man.”

He stared at him, before realizing his mouth was slightly agape. He snapped it shut. “Oh.”

“Is that a problem?” Maxwell stared at him defiantly.

“N-no – no, of course not, not at all. It's good... good for you.” He coughed, thumping his fist against his chest.

He relaxed. “It's a blind date. I don't normally do those, but my friends are making me, so.”

“I see.” His stomach was fluttering, which was ridiculous.

_No, no. Mustn't think it. No._

* * *

It was one of the worst snow storms James had seen in a long time – though of course, he'd spent much of the last decade in the desert.

It didn't start until most of the staff had gone home – the night security team had their own private quarters on the grounds – but as James was on his way to the kitchen to get some water, he passed by the library and, when he glanced inside, did a double take and stopped in his tracks.

“Bertrand?” Maxwell was draped across one of the chairs, book held loosely in hand, his arm dangling off the armrest. He was snoring quite loudly.

James sighed with irritation and shoved Maxwell's arm. “ _Bertrand_.” 

The book fell out of his hand as he woke with a start, doing some sort of karate pose. “Wha – ?” He looked up at James, confused. “Where am I...?”

“You're in my library. What are you still doing here?”

“Oh... _oh_. Oh, shit.” Maxwell ran his hands over his face and sat up. “How long was I out for?”

“It must have been a while, considering it's 9 pm.” The snow pounded against the windows. “There's a blizzard outside. It won't be safe for you to drive home.”

“ _Fuck_.” He slid down in his seat, looking up at the ceiling as though that were the cause for his current predicament. “I'm so sorry about this. I don't know what happened. One minute I was reading about the Nazi occupation in France, then – ”

“There's a guest wing,” he interrupted. “You can sleep there, if you like. I'll show you to it.”

“Nah, you can just tell me. I'm not going to sleep yet – well, I'm not going back to sleep.” Maxwell stood up and stretched, the muscles in his arms straining. His shirt lifted slightly. “It alright if I hang out in the living room for a while?”

“It's fine. Just please be quiet. The guest wing is on the third floor, the hallway to the left.”

“Thanks. Really sorry about this. It won't happen again.”

“See that it doesn't.” James turn-heeled and left the library. 

* * *

He was sitting up in his bed, unable to sleep, when there was a soft knock at the door.

“Hello?”

The door opened, and Maxwell's face peered through. “Am I bothering you?”

 _Yes._ “Do you need something?”

Maxwell took this as an invitation to open the door all the way and step inside, which it hadn't been. James felt a tiny ball of aggravation in his belly. “Man, how can you stand living in this house alone? This place is creepy as hell at night.”

James gave a small shrug. “You get used to it.”

“Well, I don't know about you, but I need some company.” He brandished a DVD. “ _Please_ come down and watch this with me. I was in the living room and my voice actually echoed. And I _swear_ I saw a ghost.”

He couldn't help chuckling. His annoyance faded.“I suppose I can humor you.”

Maxwell beamed. “Awesome.”

“What's the movie?” he asked, standing up and feeling self-conscious in his pajamas. 

“ _Seven Samurai_. It's one of the only ones I could find that wasn't directly related to the army.”

“Have something against the military? Are you one of those pacifist types?” They set off towards the large spiral staircase at the end of the hall. James walked slightly ahead of him.

“Nah. War's unnecessary most of the time, but I don't have anything against the army itself. But you have _so many_ war movies. Isn't it, like... not good to watch those? Doesn't it trigger you?”

“No, not really.” James coughed. “Have you seen _Seven Samurai_ before?”

“Nope. Is it good?”

“It is. It's also over three hours long.”

“Damn. Looks like we're in for the long haul, huh?” Maxwell clapped him on the shoulder and glided his way gracefully down the stairs. 

* * *

There had been a six-pack of beer in the fridge (the chef's, probably), which Maxwell had gladly taken as his own. James stuck to his tap water, and was grateful when Maxwell didn't try to push him into drinking.

Three empty bottles sat on the coffee table while the movie played. As Maxwell opened his fourth, he noticed James' slightly disapproving glance.

“It's been a long week,” he said, in way of explanation.

“Oh?” James fiddled with his glass, which was almost empty. 

“Yeah. That blind date was a total bust. And he keeps calling.” He took a long swig. “Trust my friends to set me up with a stage five clinger.”

James made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. As the film continued to play, and Maxwell depleted his beer supply, strangely enough, it was _James_ who found himself becoming more talkative. Perhaps it was the late hour and how tired he was.

“So, your blind date,” he asked before his brain had agreed to say it. “What happened?”

Maxwell looked surprised at the question, and gulped. “Oh, uh – well, for one thing, he started in immediately on how he wanted to have kids and settle down. Kinda intense for a first date. Then he wouldn't shut up about model trains... it was weird.”

“Your friends picked a winner.”

Maxwell laughed. “That they did, that they did.” He grew thoughtful. “I dunno. Maybe it's for the best.”

“What makes you say that?”

He was silent for several moments, before saying, “I basically have, like, a pathological need to try to 'fix' people. It's not really a fun trait to have. I mean, it's one thing to love and care for and help someone, but it's another to just give and give and give and all the other person does is take, y'know? It takes its toll, man. I'm trying to stop doing that. But I always feel like I need some kind of project. And it's fucked up, because I shouldn't be thinking of people as _projects_ , right? I dunno, maybe I just shouldn't be dating at all.”

“I see.” 

“What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you do that whole... dating thing?” 

James let out a puff of laughter and shook his head. “No.”

“Have you _ever_ dated anybody? Sorry. That's not to say I think you're undateable or anything... I don't know what I'm saying. I don't have a filter right now.”

“I've... dated. In the past.”

“Didn't work out?”

“Obviously.”

“Why not?”

James didn't answer, and focused his attention back to the movie, where the samurai were sharing their rice with one of the old villagers. Maxwell accepted his silence on the matter and did not further pursue the subject. 

“Anyway,” Maxwell said, “I've been in England for a while but I still feel like I need to get used to how you guys operate. Things are different here.”

“What made you decide to move to England?” James looked back over at him.

“You wanna know the truth?”

He nodded.

Maxwell took a long sip of his beer. “Running away from an ex.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not something I'm proud of, but...” He bit his lower lip in thought. “I mean, it wasn't because he was crazy, or anything. It's just that, everywhere I went, I was reminded of him in some way. I just wanted to escape it, you know? I'd turn the corner, see the sandwich shop we had our second date at... the park where we kissed the first time... it was rough. I couldn't deal with it. So when I got offered a job at the burn unit at Chelsea & Westminster... hard to resist. I always liked London, anyway.”

“Hmm, London. Never much liked the place myself.”

“Yeah, you don't really seem like a city kind of guy.” He chortled, then became serious again. “And... well, another reason was because my mom died. Leukemia.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

His eyes stared vacantly ahead for a few moments before snapping back. “It was a few years ago. But that didn't make the break up easier. I thought leaving would solve my problems... but it didn't. You can run from stuff all you want, but it'll still find you in the end.” 

“Wherever you go, there you are,” James said.

Maxwell smiled slowly. “Yeah, exactly.” He took another sip of beer. “The change of scenery was nice, though.”

“You lived in Maryland originally, yes?”

“Yeah. It was a lot warmer than here, that's for sure. What about you? Where are you from?”

James made a vague waving gesture. “Here. I inherited this house.”

“Ah. So your parents are dead, too?”

“Yes. Everyone in my family.” James looked away from Maxwell's sympathetic gaze.

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” he said. 

“Yes, well.” It wasn't something he thought about very often, truth be told. Or perhaps it was something he preferred not to dwell on. He drank the last of his water. “I should probably go to bed.”

“Aw, no! The movie's not over yet!” 

“You may stay and finish it, if you like. But I have an early start tomorrow and should rest.” He stood up, pulling down at the bottom of his shirt.

Maxwell looked as though he was about to follow him with protest, but seemed to think better of it and stayed where he was. “Alright. But if a ghost comes to get me, it'll be your fault.”

James felt his insides turn to ice as he made a vague nodding gesture and headed back upstairs. 

 

* * *

That night, he dreamt of soldiers lying dead in an open, bare field, and flames licking the side of his face.

The sky was orange, and streaked with purple. Ashes danced in the air. There were no screams, no sound at all. The fire didn't even hurt. It simply was.

Then, suddenly, he could hear the sound of running footsteps in the distance, coming closer. He couldn't move, but he could see. The dirt kicked up, swirled into the sky, and the footsteps drew closer and closer, and James knew it was a dream and knew who was coming and willed himself not to wake, just this once, not to wake before it was over...

“James,” the person said, “James.”

It wasn't John. It was always John, but this time it wasn't. He didn't know who it was. His eyes filled with blood and flame. 

His alarm woke him with a piercing beep.

* * *

Because of the cameras, the only place James could have a wank was in the shower. It was an indulgence he tried not to give into too often, but of course it all had to come out at some point.

He was doing so now, leaning against the shower wall, his right hand stroking rhythmically. He normally did not fantasize, preferring instead to focus on sensation, the jolts of pleasure running through his nerves and the blood rushing through his veins. This morning was proving to be an exception, as the previous night's conversation had forced him to recall long-ago memories, ones he tried to keep buried deep inside, locked in a dusty iron box. Thinking about the past could only bring him pain, unnecessary pain. 

But still, not all of the memories were bad, particularly the ones where John was fucking him, or he was fucking John, all the different times combined together in his head, almost as though a sort of dreamy montage, and all of the images flashed in his head like a particularly pornographic slideshow, and as he came closer and closer to climax, his back slipping against the wet wall, at the last moment a different picture danced across his eyes, one of Maxwell taking off his clothes and standing before him stark naked –

The thought made him come hard, his limbs shaking. 

_Oh, this is not good_ , he thought to himself, his cheeks flushed and his chest heaving up and down. The drops of water hit his face like soft marbles. _This is not at all good._

* * *

There was only a few more weeks until the new nurse would be brought in. He could make it until then. All he had to do was have as minimal contact with Maxwell as he possibly could. 

He wanted him to leave, but the thought of him actually leaving also made him incredibly melancholy. The house just would not feel the same in his absence.

The whole thing was utterly ridiculous, in any case. It wouldn't, and couldn't, happen. But that didn't stop James from behaving as though he were some sort of teenager and Googling him very thoroughly, trying to find all of his social media sites, which was difficult, considering James did not have any of those himself. 

One day, feeling like a fool as he did so, he managed to find a blog that was definitely Maxwell's, though it was not linked to him directly and did not state his full name anywhere on the page. It felt slightly unethical, reading this, as though he had found Maxwell's private diary and had cracked the lock, but he was unable to resist.

> _Hey guys! Just had my 30th birthday yesterday! Damn, I feel old, lol. 30 is when you're officially an adult, right? No more excuses? Gotta start settling down and getting your life together?_
> 
> _If anyone figures out the magical spell to make all of that happen instantly let me know because I still don't have my shit figured out._
> 
> _Party's this weekend, so hit me up if you want in!!!_

He read a few more entries before closing the page. He had to stop before he got in too deep. Sentiment was not a virtue. At least not for someone like him.

* * * 

Whenever he would come, his fingers trembling as they stayed wrapped around his cock, there was the initial afterglow, but then shortly after, an unbearable emptiness and desire for something more.

James didn't know how to fill it. He didn't know where to begin. He didn't even know what it was that was missing.

* * *

During another one of Maxwell's visits, he had noted that the scars were healing nicely but James had to take care to apply lotion to them more often, and had attempted to do so himself, his lotion-tipped fingers lightly touching the side of his burned cheek, before James had twitched away and grabbed the bottle back. 

Later that night, James booted up his computer and typed in the address for Maxwell's blog. His newest entry read –

> _A list of things that are Not Good:_
> 
> _falling for your patient  
> ...that's it, that's the list_
> 
> _Haha. Oops._

James stared at the screen for a very, very long time, attempting, and failing, to process or make sense of this. 

_He must be talking about someone else_ , he decided, and clicked out of the window.

* * *

He moved the fingers on his right hand, watching the bones and muscles contract and flex. He looked at his left hand, lying uselessly on the table. He willed the fingers to move. Nothing happened. 

It was an old exercise he had tried when he was still in the hospital and in denial about what had happened to him. _It's easy_ , he told his hand. _You've done it millions of times before. It's old hat. Move. Move. Move._

It never did. It never would.

* * *

It was the last day for much of the staff, Maxwell included. They had not spoken much over the past week or so, which was especially odd for Maxwell. He had even taken to leaving the house on time, instead of reading in the library after their appointments. James was simultaneously anticipating and dreading Maxwell's disappearance from his life and that library. 

But he would be fine. Of course he would. He always was. Alone was the best thing for him to be.

Right now he was sitting at his desk in his office. A cough came from the door, and James looked up. 

It was Maxwell. 

“Well, I'm done for the day,” he said, shifting his feet back and forth. “So I guess this is it.”

“I suppose so.” James was careful not to make eye contact. “You've done a fine job, Bertrand. We're all sorry to see you go.”

“Thanks.” He lingered in the doorway.“Listen, um... I know this is none of my business, but...”

James looked warily at him. “What?”

He seemed to be struggling to find the right words to say. After a moment or two, he did. “Look, I can't even begin to imagine the stuff you've been through. I'm not gonna pretend to really understand that. But... what I _can_ understand is feeling like you're alone. And I can understand feeling like you can get through everything by yourself. But you shouldn't have to. In fact, you can't. No one can get through this life without help. And – don't take this the wrong way – I think you do need some. Help.”

James' muscles tensed as he fell back in his seat.

“I mean, with everything that's happened to you... most people would have fallen apart. And you've been holding it together, but I'm...” He nearly swallowed his words. “I'm worried about you, man. You cut yourself off from everyone and everything. That's no way to live.” Maxwell took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. “So, I asked around, and I think I found someone who you can talk to about everything. I know it's not easy for you to talk to people, but this psychiatrist specializes in veterans with PTSD. She's, like, the top of her field. And she even does house calls, if you need her to, so you won't have to go to the city.” 

He gingerly stepped back into the office and placed the business card for the therapist on James' desk. James looked at it, but didn't pick it up.

“I really hope you give it a shot,” Maxwell said. “It doesn't hurt, to have someone to talk to.”

James slid his gaze back up to Maxwell's hopeful face. 

“You're right,” he said. “It's none of your business.”

Maxwell pulled back a bit, as though James had just made to punch him. Then, an expression came over his face, one of disappointment and resignation, but not as though he was entirely surprised. 

“Okay.” He tapped the card with his index finger before heading back towards the door. “But hold onto it.” He paused at the threshold once again. He took one last look back at him. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

He closed the door quietly. 

James waited until he was sure Maxwell was long gone, before picking up the business card. It read, in simple font with a simple design:

_DR. AURELIA HASAN  
VA Psychiatrist_

Contact info was typed in a smaller font below. James flipped the card between his fingers. He considered crumpling it, throwing it in the trash, ripping it, throwing it out the window, stomping on it, hiding it somewhere no one would ever be able to find it.

He slipped the card inside his Rolodex instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [shinka](http://shinka.tumblr.com) for providing the French translations, and to [sidonay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sidonay) for looking this over and assuring me I'm not a terrible writer.


End file.
